


You don't need a license (to be a hero)

by FracturedAspect



Category: Sword Art Online (Anime & Manga), 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sword Art Online Fusion, BAMF Midoriya Izuku, Gen, Midoriya Izuku Does Not Have One for All Quirk, Midoriya Izuku is Bad at Feelings, Midoriya Izuku is Kirito, Quirkless Midoriya Izuku
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2019-11-29 02:37:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18217067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FracturedAspect/pseuds/FracturedAspect
Summary: When the whole world tells Izuku that he's not capable of being anything more than a useless, quirkless deku, is it any wonder that he finds himself in games, where quirks don't matter?Is it any wonder that he finds himself in SAO?





	1. Prologue

It starts – as do all stories concerning Midoriya Izuku – with a visit to the doctor.

In a world where your future potential is determined by your quirk, the result of genetics and chance, it was inevitable that this was going to be a defining moment in his life. A moment which decided what society would deem him worthy of.

It turned out that society would never deem him worth much at all, and as Izuku travelled home that day, clutched in the arms of his sobbing mother as she apologised for the cruelty of life that denied him the same advantage as those around him, he cried for the future he’d been told he could never achieve. 

Quirkless.

The word might as well have been a curse. He doesn’t know why not having a quirk suddenly makes him worth so much less than anyone else, doesn’t understand why Kacchan will be at least polite to him in private but will create explosions hot enough to sear if his jeering friends are nearby, but he does understand that they’re not doing anything wrong. Otherwise the teachers who watch with indifferent eyes would do something.

They don’t, though, so obviously Kacchan doesn’t mean it when he calls Izuku Deku. It doesn’t matter when the other kids write nasty things on his desk and destroy his things if Izuku leaves them unattended, Izuku is just sensitive. It doesn’t mean anything when the other kids give Izuku bruises in the locker room, they’re just trying to shut up Izuku’s mumbling, it’s only natural they’d stop him when he gets too annoying. It doesn’t mean anything that Izuku is the last to arrive and the first to leave from school, hair wild and breathing heavy from running to avoid grasping, hurtful hands.

And it doesn’t make Izuku angry, not at all, when the teachers always watch him twice as closely as anyone else in tests to make sure he isn’t cheating, because how else could a quirkless boy get such good scores? Or when another student destroys his homework and before he can get halfway through his stuttering explanation is told, _no need to try and pin the blame for this on other students, Midoriya, if you didn’t feel like doing the work you should’ve just said so_ , and then he has to sit through twice the number of detentions any of his classmates would be given for the same infraction.

Izuku is ten when he learns what the word discrimination means, and it’s then he starts longing for an even playing field – the chance to start off at the same starting line as everyone else.

It’s a struggle to keep his grades up, to not let the hostility stop him from learning, but there was never a world where Izuku didn’t dig his heels in at a challenge. He stops taking his textbooks to school after the third time his mother has to replace them, instead suffering reprimands for forgetting them and meekly sitting through detentions, combing through them when he gets home to make sure that he understands the material, that they can’t take his grades away from him.

(His grades – his _mind_ – it’s the one advantage he has over most of his class, and he won’t let them take that away from him. No matter how much it infuriates Kacchan that there is one area, at least, in which Izuku stands with him on equal ground.)

It doesn’t stop him from feeling lonely, starved of human contact. The only person who ever had a kind word for him was his mother, and even that was shadowed under pity and guilt. He couldn’t even just wander round the neighborhood and exchange greetings with strangers who had no idea what a quirkless, useless freak he was, because Kacchan would see him, Kacchan always saw him, and he was always infuriated by Izuku’s very existence.

It was by chance, then, that Izuku struck upon the idea of virtual reality games. Quirks didn’t matter there, everyone started with similar stats, and if you wanted to be better you had to work for it.

(Izuku had never had a problem with working to be better.)

He’s good at it, he learns. Without the natural advantage of quirks in VR, without the limits of his small, weak body, his analytical skills gained from years of watching heroes out of awe (and his classmates out of fear) are given the chance to shine, to put him forward rather than keep him level with everyone else. Before long he finds he favours fantasy-based games, ones with swords and magic, to the point where he starts getting fencing lessons IRL.

He’s more than excited when he’s offered the chance to beta-test SAO, so pleased that his cheeks ache from how much he’s grinning, and as fun as it was, he’s infinitely more excited when it’s time for SAO to open to everyone, for the opportunity to explore a whole new world with fifty thousand other people, to see how far he can go.

(He can go far, he learns, very far; but the journey is less kind than he’d expected, and he doesn’t make it with all fifty thousand.

Not all fifty thousand make it.)

Midoriya Izuku’s journey always starts in a doctor’s office where he’s told that there are some things he will never be able to do; but in whatever world, Midoriya Izuku manages to achieve more than anyone ever expected he was capable of.

This world was no exception.


	2. Chapter 1

Physical therapy was draining.

Everything was draining, really, including breathing and walking and crying into a hug from his mother for the first time in so long, but Izuku held a special hatred for physical therapy, for the way it highlighted how weak he’d gotten. It was a stark contrast to the strength he’d had in-game, far more than he’d ever have in the real world, and he wasn’t sure yet if he missed it.

(There were some things he was never going to miss about SAO.)

His inability to do something left him adrift in a way he hadn’t often experienced in the last two years, though, because he’d always been able to just move – move on to the next town, the next job, the next fight, clawing his way forward with single-minded determination and laser focus.

Here he was limited by the shaking of his legs when he tried to stand. The way he couldn’t eat anything solid after two years of his body living on an IV. The way he didn’t know how to talk to his mother, how to fill in the gaps for the years she’d missed. The way the hospital staff treated them all with something between pity and disgust, spoke to them like the slightest thing would make them crack.

It doesn’t take long for the survivors to learn why; of the fifty thousand people who had been trapped, only thirty thousand survived. Twenty thousand people had died over the course of the … game. Izuku hesitated to call it that, even in his head. It hadn’t felt like a game.

The news had nearly caused a riot in the hospital, would have if they hadn’t all been in such poor health. Far too many had clung to the hope that people weren’t dying IRL when they died in SAO. Some of those people had killed believing that.

It made the disgust some of the staff felt a little more understandable, though no easier to bear.

A day after waking up Izuku was told about the schools that had been set up for the children who had been trapped, about how it would help to catch him up to where he needed to be. He smiled awkwardly and did his best to look agreeable. As soon as he was alone again he started to plan ways to avoid it; perhaps homeschooling would be an acceptable alternative.

He’d seen how other kids reacted to his quirklessness. He’d seen how other SAO players had reacted to reacted to beta testers, and how they’d reacted to him, the solo beater of the front lines. He’d seen how medical professionals were treating them, people who were supposed to be impartial in their care, and he could guess how being in a school like that would go.

His mother had been surprised, but more than willing to give him the schoolbooks he asked for. If anything, she seemed relieved that she could do something he asked of her, eager to help. The next week in the hospital passed with Izuku dividing his time between studying, eating, physical exercises he’d been given to help him regain the muscle mass he’d lost and answering the questions of the government people.

They seemed most interested in what he’d learned about Kayaba when he’d exposed the man, and in how people within the game had reacted to being trapped, but they’d also taken a description of what he’d done over the last two years. It had been a long conversation.

At least he’d been kept busy. They were allowed out of bed – it was encouraged for them to walk around, even, to help them recover – and of course the first thing everyone did was start to gossip. It was hard to ignore the subdued whispers from people who didn’t know what they were going to do now, what had happened to their families or their homes while they were away? The uncertainty was swamping the residents of the hospital and it was all Izuku could do to not let himself be affected by it.

It came as a relief when he was discharged at the end of the week. Inko had been uncertain that leaving hospital was the best thing for him when he was still thin enough for his ribs to be plainly visible and he wasn’t yet capable of keeping down solid foods, he was as healthy as could be expected and if anything went wrong the medical bracelet attached to his wrist would call an ambulance for him. There was nothing more the hospital could do for him since the only thing that would help him recover was time and the strict eating and exercising schedule he’d been given by a stern-faced doctor.

The first step outside, into the fresh air and past crowds of people who were free of the tension and fear he’d grown used to seeing everywhere he went was surreal.

They got the bus back home, which something of a novelty given that the closest thing in SAO was a cart and horse, and Izuku just kept being surprised by the sheer variety of people. There hadn’t been any children younger than seven in SAO, and middle-aged and old people combined had been vastly outnumbered by the teenagers and young adults simply because that was the demographic SAO had been designed for.

Izuku had already counted six pensioners getting on and off the bus and there were currently two children seated at the front – one baby asleep in a puchchair and a young girl with blonde hair and a small balloon bobbing over her head from where it was tied around her wrist.

He made an effort not to stare, but it was probably a losing battle. Getting used to SAO had been an adjustment, had been learning how to work around the rules of the system they were in to get the most back.

It was harder to unlearn those instincts than he remembered it being to learn them.

He was tense by the time they finally stepped off the bus, the light breeze a relief against his face after the stuffy heat caused by too many people packed too close together, and he followed his mother without complaint as she led the way home.

If the first step out of the hospital had felt surreal, then being back in his old apartment felt like stepping back in time.

“Welcome home, Izuku.” Midoriya Inko said tearfully, wringing a tea towel in her hands.

Izuku tries not to show how odd he finds being called that name after so long answering to Kirito, especially in this place from his childhood memories.

“It’s good to be back.” He tells her, and he’s only lying a little bit. She smiles through her tears so despite the minor deception he calls it a win.

He walks to his room quietly while she busied herself in the kitchen, running his fingers over half-remembered mementos as he goes, more details coming to mind as the familiar surroundings jogged his memory.

He remembers how fiercely he’d followed heroes before, how happily he’d collected any form of memorabilia he could get his hands on, so he knows what to expect when he cracks open the door of his room and sidles inside, feeling very much like the intruder here.

Even expecting it, the room is a riot of colour to his eyes, hero posters designed to be bold and bright plastering the walls and shelves full of figurines and packs of trading cards, lovingly arranged by the hero they belong to. Almost three entire shelves and half a wall is devoted to All Might alone. Izuku isn’t at all surprised.

Despite how full the room is, every available surface in use, the whole place feels empty. Clean, not covered in inch thick dust, but ... untouched. Unchanged. Like the person who lived here had just popped out, and time in this room had paused until he came back.

It’s the room of someone who is dedicated to following heroes, tracking their actions and abilities and quirks. It’s the room of someone who wants to be a hero.

Izuku can’t remember the last time he dreamed of being a hero, but he’s sure it was before he decided that some people were worth killing if it meant more got to live.

He feels nauseous, abruptly, surrounded by his childhood things. Things untouched by the blood and death he’d waded through to get here, things he’d treasured when he’d still thought that he could be good. He felt like he was defiling them somehow, standing here with blood on his hands.

Everyone at the hospital, every doctor and psychologist, had insisted that despite what had happened, despite the horrors forced on them and the independence he’d learned, he was still a child. Well, maybe he was by law, but he’d never felt less like a child than now, with the difference in his past and present self so stark.

Digging out some boxes, Izuku sets about finding out what colour the walls are underneath all the posters.

Izuku touches base with other SAO survivors regularly.

He knows it worries his mother, knows she thinks that he’s stuck in the past and honestly, it is nice to talk to people who were there like they were still fighting together, still relying on them to watch out for each other, even if it’s not life or death any more. Trading life and death concerns for remembering how to fit in and move on from what they experienced was no easy switch, and they understood how hard it was like no-one else, no matter how hard his mother tried.

But it’s also nice just to make sure they’re all right, to support one another and offer suggestions to help each other along. These are people he has trusted with his life and they have trusted him with theirs in turn, dancing into battle together with a plan as precise as the tip of a blade. Trusting one another to be there at the right moment, counting on each other not to make a mistake because the price for miscalculation was death.

Perhaps the only bright spot in SAO had been the friends he’d made, and he had no intention of pushing them away now they were in the ‘real’ world. He’d continue looking out for them here, as they would for him. Maybe that wouldn’t meaning grinding to reach the next level or strategizing for boss fights any more, but they could study together and trade workout tricks and tips for physiotherapy.

It gets easier to move around as time goes by. Extended periods of activity still leave him exhausted and shaking, but as he starts to move from protein jelly packets to actual food and his ribs stop being visible through his clothing it feels more like he’s making progress.

As he starts to regain his strength, Izuku feels more and more trapped spending most of his time at the apartment. He doubts he’d stayed in one place this long during the entirety of his time in SAO. He’d put up with staying still when he’d been barely strong enough to walk across the room, but now that he’s capable of moving choosing not to leaving makes restless energy buzz uncomfortably beneath his skin. On the worst days, Izuku paces restlessly around the empty apartment while his mother is at work, wishing he had the space to just _move_.

His solution is to take increasingly long walks outside the apartment, enjoying the freedom to wander the streets and enjoying the sight of so many perfectly happy people far more than he’d ever admit.

On one of those walks he rediscovers Dagobah beach, piled high with trash, and it only takes one conversation with his mother before she talks to an environmentalist friend of hers who volunteers to run all the trash Izuku picks up at the beach to the dump. From then on, Izuku relocates his physiotherapy to the beach – if he’s going to have to haul around metal to rebuild his muscles, then he might as well be useful doing it. It’s easier to motivate himself this way, too – he’s not the sort to enjoy exercise for the sake of it, but this way he’s actually achieving something.

* * *

 

The beach gets a (very little) bit clearer every day, despite his limitations. He’s mostly stuck moving the small things, leaving the abandoned fridges and ovens and sofas where they are, but he’s managed to clear a small area where he can actually see the sand and walk over it barefoot without risking tetanus. It’s a good place to fall over and stare at the sky when his muscles burn with exertion and he needs to stop to relearn how to breath. The piles of trash around him aren’t very pretty to look at, but he figures he’ll get around to them eventually. He’s got time.

He’s got time.

It’s a funny thing, what your brain does to you under extreme stress. Your whole focus narrows down to surviving the next challenge, the next fight. There wasn’t room for thoughts about your future because you might not have one, and the more you wasted your time thinking about things you didn’t have, the less likely you were to survive.

It was a sad way to live, moving only from one fight to the next. Happy moments came few and far between, especially on the front lines. It made the calm moments all the more vivid and when he had the time, he’d often just lie down on a patch of grass somewhere and soak in the summer sunshine.

Much like he was doing now. With his eyes closed and his nose accustomed to the smell of wet, rusting metal, it was almost a nice place to be. The sun was a soothing warmth on his skin, the sound of the sea was peaceful, and he was alone.

… No, he wasn’t.

He could hear someone approaching. Jogging, from the sound of the footsteps, which was unusual – joggers tended to avoid Dagobah because it was an eyesore. About the only benefit to the place was how deserted it usually was. Someone who was self-conscious then?

Izuku prayed silently that they wouldn’t come his way, but naturally he wasn’t so lucky; the footsteps slowed as their owner approached his little cleared out hollow. With any luck they wouldn’t notice him, but –

The footsteps rounded the corner, and he heard an alarmed gasp followed by what sounded like a nasty coughing fit.

 – If they jogged here regularly, they’d notice that the trash had moved. Dammit.

“Young man, are you all right?” The man splutters out between hacking coughs. Izuku raises a hand to shield his eyes from the sun before he opens them, tilting his head to look at the man watching him worriedly.

Izuku’s first impression of him is tall; partly that’s because he’s practically looming over Izuku on the ground despite still standing a couple of meters away, but partly it’s because of how thin he is, skin stretched over bone dwarfed by his clothes and an explosion of blonde hair, wild and untamed, like those things can distract from his obvious poor health. Izuku might have been onto something when he guessed that the jogger was self-conscious.

Izuku raises a dubious eyebrow. “I think I should be asking you that.” The man looks worse than he did straight after waking up from SAO.

His expression turns a little sheepish, body relaxing now he knows that Izuku hadn’t collapsed or something. “Ah, yes. It’s nothing to worry about, I promise.” He aims a bright, reassuring smile at Izuku.

Izuku’s second impression of this man is that he’s either unfailingly kind or really, really stupid, because it’s blatantly obvious that he’s smiling solely for Izuku’s benefit despite the fact that the man doesn’t even know his name. Izuku decides to withhold judgment for now.

“Uh huh.” Izuku says doubtfully, but he doesn’t pry where he isn’t wanted. “Anyway, I’m fine. Just resting.”

“You’ve been clearing the beach.” He sounded surprised but pleased, keen blue eyes flickering over the clear patch of sand.

Izuku hummed in agreement, hauling himself to his feet and shaking the sand out of his hair. “Yeah. I can’t lift too much yet, so I’m mostly stuck shifting the smaller pieces, but it’ll get better with time.”

“Ah, you’re training to get stronger, then?” The man perks up, looking interested. Izuku snorts.

“More like training to get back to where I was.” He shrugged carelessly. “I figured, my physiotherapist said I had to haul around metal to build my muscles back up, but there was no reason to pay for a gym membership when there were piles of trash that needed to be hauled to the dump right here.”

“Your physiotherapist?” The blonde man asked, eyebrows shooting up. “Were you injured?”

Izuku shoots him a wary look, but he was mostly resigned to this happening as soon as he opened his mouth. At least he could probably take the stick man in a fight if he didn’t react well; he looked like a strong breeze would knock him over. “I was in a coma for two years. Muscle atrophy comes with the territory.”

“Ah.” The man nods in understanding, but there’s no flicker of realisation in his gaze. Does this man live under a rock, or does he really not care to the point that he barely even notices what Izuku is telling him?

Izuku looks at him and raises an eyebrow, half expectant and half disbelieving, while the man looks back, face a picture of confusion. “What?”

“Have you been living under a rock for the last couple of years?” Izuku asks, exasperated. “Or perhaps as a hermit?” Without waiting for a reply he extends his left arm, yanking up the sleeve to reveal a slim medical bracelet.

It was a requirement for all the SAO players, given their precarious health. Nobody wanted to report more dead SAO players. Izuku even agreed with their reasoning. What he didn’t agree with was giving the SAO survivors a medical bracelet that was visibly different from the norm. It made them too easily identified, and too easily set apart from everyone else. As far as he was concerned it was no better than a brand.

Even this man seemed to know what it meant, his whole body softening and turning sorrowful.

“Not that much of a hermit then.” Izuku says, falsely nonchalant.

“No, not really.” The man says, and there’s so much pity in his eyes that Izuku has to swallow back his anger.

“Don’t do that.” Izuku says, voice a little too sharp. When the blonde man glances at him, he continues. “Don’t pity us. It was our life, for two years. It wasn’t always a nice life, but we lived it as well as we could. Don’t pity us for surviving it!”

The man blinks at him, surprise clear in his blue eyes before it fractures into warmth. “No.” He agrees softly. “You’re right. No one should be pitied for living.” His hand flutters to his abdomen for a moment before dropping back to his side. “It occurs to me that I haven’t yet introduced myself. My name is Yagi Toshinori.”

Izuku watches him for a second, but there isn’t a hint of ill-will in the man and he’s usually pretty good at spotting dangerous people. “Midoriya Izuku.” He reluctantly offers back.

Yagi’s smile is as bright as the sun. “It’s nice to meet you, Midoriya.”

Izuku snorts and looks away but doesn’t ignore him. “And you, Yagi-san.”

Yagi can’t be bothered by his reticence because his smile doesn’t even dim. “Allow me to offer my assistance. Between the two of us we should be able to move some of the heavier things you’ve been having trouble with.”

There has to be some ulterior motive in the offer – no one offers to haul trash for no reason – but Izuku doubts Yagi wants to hurt him, doubts Yagi _could_ hurt him, and besides, free labour is free labour. It’ll make Izuku’s life a lot easier, getting some help with the bulkier things.

“Sure.” He shrugs. “It’s your time.”

It doesn’t take much for the pair of them to fall into a rhythm, steadily widening the area of clear sand, carrying together what is too heavy or too big for them to manage alone. Izuku has to take more breaks than he really enjoys, but he knows better than to push himself and set his recovery back. It is surprising that Yagi isn’t resting as much as he is, given that the older man looks even worse off.

It isn’t any of his business, so he doesn’t ask.

The truck is filled up after a couple hours of work, and Izuku is honestly surprised at how much they managed to do. It’s the first time he’s managed to fill it in one go since he started. Slumping against the vehicle, he pulls out a couple of protein bars and tosses one to Yagi, who fumbles as he catches it.

“You need to eat.” Izuku says around a mouthful of his own bar when Yagi shoots him a startled expression.

“I couldn’t possibly –” Yagi begins protesting, but Izuku cuts him off with a deadpan stare.

“You absolutely can, you just spent a couple of hours helping me haul trash and you looked like you were about to keel over before we started.” Izuku rolled his eyes. Stupid, the man was definitely stupid. “It’s just a protein bar, so eat already.”

Yagi chuckled ruefully and conceded, the two of them sharing food in comfortable silence.

There were worse ways to spend an afternoon.

* * *

Toshinori’s first impression of the boy – once he realises that the boy is resting, not injured, and his heart stops trying to tear itself from his chest – is that he’s withdrawn. Not necessarily in his manner, but with his thoughts and emotions, yes. It showed in the way he had been drawn tense and ready when he’d shown Toshinori his medical bracelet, prepared to fight or flee from rejection, the way his bright green eyes had gone cold and calculating when Yagi had offered help.

It was the look of someone who didn’t trust kindness when it was offered to them. Toshinori had seen it often, as a hero who was called to the worst crime scenes to capture the most dangerous villains. He hadn’t expected to see that look on a boy barely halfway through his teens.

How old had Midoriya been when Kayaba trapped them in that horrible game? Judging by how young he still was now, he couldn’t have been older than thirteen.

When Toshinori had been thirteen he’d still been striving hopelessly towards being a hero. He’d not long met Nana Shimura, but she hadn’t yet told him of her quirk or offered to pass it on to him, so he was left to suffer the scorn of his peers with only his own determination to buoy him.

He hadn’t yet thrown his first punch, let alone faced his first villain. Yet this boy had done so, had faced evil and if not fought, then survived. That was a victory in its’ own way, if one that always left a mark. It had certainly changed this boy, who Yagi would believe to be a cold and suspicious person if not for his self-imposed community service in clearing the beach, the way he offered Yagi food – if offered was the right word, considering that he’d given Yagi no chance to decline.

It didn’t change his stilted behaviour, uncaring but watchful. It did change his reasons, and that gave Toshinori hope. With all that young Midoriya must have seen, and lived through, despite surviving whatever happened to him in SAO that taught him other people would always believe the worst, he was still capable of being kind. To someone that he’d exchanged barely a few sentences with no less, a husk of a man that most people would cross the street to avoid.

Midoriya hadn’t been afraid of him. Midoriya hadn’t been afraid at all. His words still rang in Toshinori’s ear, sharp enough to cut.

_It wasn’t always a nice life, but we lived it as well as we could. Don’t pity us for surviving it!_

Perhaps he should jog near Dagobah more often. His time as All Might was limited, so he couldn’t be a hero all the time; but he could still help, even in small ways.

If that meant he could keep an eye on the boy, well. Young Midoriya could hurt himself if he wasn’t careful, so someone should watch out for him.


	3. Chapter 2

Izuku’s wanderings didn’t limit themselves to daylight hours. He’d often travelled in both night and darkness in SAO. He knew how to protect himself and it didn’t scare him.

Perhaps he should have put more thought into his ability to protect himself IRL before he decided to wander around at all hours.

The night had started simply enough. His mother was out again, still working extra shifts, and Izuku had decided that he’d rather be outside than cooped up in their silent, empty flat. The sun had already set, but that didn’t bother him.

He’d left the apartment wearing only t-shirt and trousers, anything more unbearable in the humid summer heat. Traversing his neighbourhood was second nature by now, and most of the surrounding neighbourhoods were familiar as well. Picking a new direction, he let his feet lead the way forward.

It hadn’t escaped his attention that he’d entered a nastier side of town. He’d noticed. The buildings showed more signs of wear and tear, storefronts were damaged, there were more alleyways and they all smelled atrocious, overflowing with garbage. Of course, he’d noticed. But he’d completely failed to register that knowledge as relevant to him, and the danger he was in only registered when he rounded a corner only to spot several ominous shapes leaning casually against a wall at the mouth of an alley.

For a spilt second, he’d faltered, before habit kicked in and he stayed his course with barely a hitch in his steps. Turning and leaving would only make them think he was an easy target.

(He knew very well that he was an easy target. He also knew, better than most, the power of a good bluff. He couldn’t afford to show weakness to these men.)

Izuku watches them out of the corner of his eyes as he walks past, face as cold and threatening as he can make it. He’d intimidated murderers in SAO, he can handle a few thugs.

(His reputation had done the work for him in SAO, and he knew it. His only consolation was that these people had no reason to attack him. He sure as hell didn’t look rich.)

Three men. All basic thugs, brute force over finesse, Izuku guesses. No visible quirks that Izuku can see, but one of them probably has a strengthening quirk judging by the size of his muscles. That or steroids.

He didn’t have his swords. He was capable of hand to hand combat, but it wasn’t his specialty and against opponents who are so much larger and stronger, he’s at a severe disadvantage. It would take him several solid hits to knock even one of them out of the fight, and they only needed one good hit to knock him out entirely.

If they attack, his best option was to run. They’re larger and heavier, so chances are they were slower than him, and unless one of them had a gun or a quirk suited for long-range combat or capture, they won’t be able to hurt him from afar. He knows what direction he came from; if he can lead them back to familiar ground, he’ll stand a better chance at losing them, although the last thing he wants is for this to turn into a drawn-out chase. He’s still not back at full health, and if a chase goes on too long, he’ll be caught.

He makes it past them, then further. One meter. Two meters. For a moment, he almost thinks he’ll get away unchallenged.

“Hey, you!”

Then again, when has he ever managed to avoid trouble?

Izuku stops, then pivots back on one foot, turning just enough to glare at the thugs with one cold green eye. The entire manoeuvre was calculated to be as confident and aloof as he could manage, and it conveniently leaves Izuku poised to sprint in the opposite direction. Izuku will readily admit that he doesn’t have a face that can easily pull of intimidating and his youth isn’t helping. At least he doesn’t have baby fat anymore, that would really be the final nail in the coffin. His coffin, probably.

“Yes?” He keeps his voice cool and unafraid, deliberately lowering his voice a little so that he sounds less like a child. There’s no mistaking his height, but in the poor light they should have some trouble guessing exactly how young he is.

One of them steps forward, bringing his features into sharp relief. He’s a big man, all muscle, with black hair and piggy eyes set back in his beefy face to the point that Izuku can’t tell what colour they are. Scars litter his face and hands, and his expression has an edge of wild rage that makes the hair on the back of neck stand on end.

“You’re one of those SAO bastards, aren’t you?” He asks, eyes flickering down to the bracelet wrapped around Izuku’s wrist. They both know it’s not really a question.

“Your point?” It isn’t hard to keep his voice steady and unaffected. It hasn’t been since that first time, because nothing will ever be as hard as that.

Here and now, it’s only his own life on the line.

The thug snorted, an ugly, hateful sound. “You lot make me sick, y’know? Acting like you’re all horrified by what happened.” He took a threatening step forward. “You lot are only alive because you trod over the corpses of others, but no-one cares about that, because you’re the _victims_.” He spits the word out, twisted and spiteful, and flexes his muscular arms as he slides into a good stance for punching. “Why should you get to walk around free when bastards like you _killed my sister_!”

His voice rises up into a roar as he charges, arm drawn back to throw a punch, but Izuku is already sprinting away. Racing down the road, he throws himself around a corner and out of sight, desperately searching for somewhere he can slip away. Behind him the thug stumbles and curses as his punch overbalances him, but it isn’t enough of a deterrent. His thudding footsteps follow, along with two more – his friends from the alley. Izuku doesn’t slow down to look back at them.

Feet pounding on the asphalt, Izuku throws himself left, then right, heading deeper into the maze of shadowy streets and back alleys. He doesn’t hesitate to haul himself up onto the edge of a skip and from there onto a fire escape, charging up the rusty metal staircase as the whole structure shuddered underneath him.

A yell from behind let him know they’d caught sight of him again, although he hadn’t exactly expected to pass unnoticed with the racket he was making. The shouts sounded further off than they had been, but that wasn’t saying much.

His fingers burned as he pulled himself up onto the roof, scraped raw from the tiles. Pausing crouched at the top, he looked back at his pursuers over the edge of the roof. They weren’t far behind, the leader glaring up at Izuku even as he barrelled towards the fire escape.

The humid air stuck in his lungs for a moment and Izuku turned away, already eyeing nearby roofs and planning a route. From the looks of things, that thug wasn’t going to give up easily.

The houses are small and cramped in this area, and that is mirrored in the dark, cheerless streets. Izuku can almost step over the gaps, and a quick glance at the bright lights of Musutafu’s city centre in the distance gives him a good idea of which direction his home is.

He angles toward the small shopping district just shy of his neighbourhood. It’s busy enough, even at this time of night, that they might think twice about chasing him there. If that doesn’t make them think twice, then there’s the police station nearby.

The rattle of rusty metal grates like nails on chalkboard, a sure sign that they’ve found the fire escape and are climbing up to the roof. Ignoring the protests of his legs, the stretch of his muscles and the uncomfortable stitch in his side, Izuku forces himself to move faster.

He’s starting to recognise more familiar streets, now, but it has the downside of being a nicer area, with wider streets and bigger gaps between houses. Jumping between them loses him time as he staggers and his palms hit the tiles when he lands. He’s leaving bloody handprints behind him now, and his leg muscles are screaming at the strain even as his lungs burn.

But he can still continue. He has to, because they’re still chasing him. Izuku doubts they will be kind if they catch him. Their baying calls for his blood send thrills of fear up his spine. He’s faced manhunts for him before, but the terror of being chased – of being _prey_ – never really wears off.

Up the slope of the roof to the top, down the other side, jump, hit the tiles, get up and repeat. The yelling behind him is too close for a delay, his shoulders tense from expecting a hand to clamp down on them. Cursing when he’s met with a blank wall the next building over, Izuku scrambles up the wall to the second story, boosting himself off a pipe and a window ledge, curling his fingers around the gutter to pull himself up.

Jumping to the next building isn’t any more difficult than before, but the potential fall is more terrifying. Izuku doesn’t let himself pause to acknowledge the drop in his stomach as he jumps. He’s more likely to live this way.

These houses are terraced, and he follows the line of them down the street – at this point, it’s difficult to do anything else because he’s too high to go back to street level unless he can find a place to climb down, and the other roofs nearby are too far away.

Izuku slows to a halt as the street ends and he’s out of places to run. His legs shake beneath him, blood dribbling between his fingers, breath heavy and heart pounding. Sweat slicks his shirt to his body, vision flickering black at the edges and even his curly green hair is struggling to retain its’ usual bounce. He feels like he could collapse to the ground and not move for an hour if not for the sound of footsteps behind him as the three thugs catch up.

They’re not on him yet; they can afford to take their time when he has nowhere else to go, and they do, sauntering confidently forward from the other end of the row. The leader looks at Izuku with a sense of smug anticipation, although it doesn’t quite hide the cruel light in his piggy eyes.

He wants to make Izuku _hurt_.

Izuku turns back to the open air less than a meter in front of him, scanning the street for something, anything. No lampposts to slide down like a fireman’s pole, or fire escapes, or neighbouring buildings at a distance he can easily jump. The building in front of him is a convenience store, a story lower, flat roof, and further away than Izuku can comfortably jump on a good day.

They’re only five houses away now, and one of them calls out to him. “Hey, little boy. Are you gonna jump?”

The other guy laughs like a hyena, but the thug after Izuku because his sister died in SAO doesn’t laugh at all, despite sounding pleased when he adds on, “Yeah, might save us the trouble of killing you ourselves!”

“No need for us to get our hands dirty.” The last thug cackled, but Izuku barely heard it over the static in his head.

_If you want a quirk so bad, take a swan dive off the roof and pray for better luck in the next life!_

Something harsh and ugly lodges in his throat, and Izuku backs up a step. Then two steps. Five. Ten.

Judging from the mocking laughter, they think he’s afraid of falling. He doesn’t pay them any attention; they’re wrong. Instead he breathes in, deeply; once, twice, three times.

The extra height might make up for the distance.

Right foot back. Left knee bent. Body tilted forward. His legs feel steady now. They know how to do this.

He can do this.

He shoots forward on an exhale, as fast as he can, racing for the edge of the roof. His feet pound the tiles as angry shouts ring out behind him, but he barely even notices.

The edge of the roof is suddenly there, right in front of him, and he pushes off from it without pause, his whole body weightless as his momentum carries him over empty space.

For a moment it feels like he’s suspended in midair, before gravity regains its’ hold on him and Izuku starts to come down. There’s one second in which he has time to think, _this is going to hurt,_ before he hits the ground.

Or more accurately, he hits the edge of the roof. His toes land on the edge, just barely holding him for a split second before his weight comes down, knees flexing to absorb the impact, and his toes slip straight off again.

Stomach in his throat as his body plummets down, Izuku throws his arms out to catch himself, grabbing on just in time for his body to painfully collide with the wall, stars bursting across his vision as the momentum slams his head into the ground and his ribs are ground cruelly into the edge of the building.

Between one breath and the next, he’s scrambling up onto the roof proper, the pounding of his heart pushing him up and away from the empty space below him, and takes two staggering steps forward before the buzzing in his ears subsides enough that he notices that the yells of the men chasing him are different. Aggressive, but not cruelly confident like earlier. It sounds like they’re fighting.

Izuku looks back. He can’t see a lot over the edge of the roof, but he can make out the shapes of the three men who were chasing him fighting with a fourth. The newcomer is difficult to make out, dressed in dark clothes. He had to be an underground hero or a vigilante, no-one else would get in the way except police, who wore uniforms and didn’t usually fight on rooftops, or heroes, but Izuku didn’t recognise him from the public rankings.

(So he might not be a fanboy these days, but their quirks were still interesting and SAO hadn’t lessened his tendency to analyse fighting styles. Quite the opposite, in fact.)

The newcomer was lithe grace and deadly accuracy. It must have taken him less than a minute to subdue three men twice his size and Izuku watched every moment greedily. The last one went down in a tangle of grey material, the ends held by the newcomer without effort. Something about it nags at Izuku’s memory, and it isn’t until Izuku gets a good look at his face that he remembers what it is. Yellow goggles, gravity-defying hair, eyes that glow red when his quirk is active.

_Eraserhead?_

* * *

 

Aizawa Shota crouched on the edge of the roof, listening to the streets below. It was a quiet night so far, even though this was a disreputable part of town. Even criminals had to take a night off, he supposed.

Not that he ever seemed to get time off, with teaching brats during the day and patrolling during the night. Hizashi was even worse off, with his hero hours, his job as head of the English department at UA and his radio station. Between their five jobs sometimes they could go a whole week without more than a couple of hours together in a non-professional setting – no matter how much Hizashi begged, Shota wasn’t about to start displaying their relationship in front of his students. They’d spend the rest of the school year gossiping about them rather than learning anything.

An enraged yell echoes through the streets and Aizawa’s head shoots round to track it, taking off across the city with the help of his capture weapon. He scans the streets as he runs, looking for any sign of trouble.

He hears trouble first, the rusty rattle of someone running on a fire escape. It gives him a better idea of where to head, and he speeds up a little. A figure appears on the rooftops and immediately bolts, showing a surprising skill for climbing. Aizawa changes course to head nearly straight for him, only making the barest of concessions to remaining hidden until he hears that rusty rattle again, but longer and louder this time.

Pursuers. Lovely.

Three more men spill out onto the rooftop, clearly chasing the first. They’re the ones he needs to stop.

He’s faster than them and gaining despite their head start. What concerns him is that they’re gaining on their quarry as well, and closer together, the height difference between them is obvious enough to be alarming. Even if the second group is taller than him – and he’s just shy of six feet – the one running away was far too short to be an adult.

They’re chasing a _kid_.

He doesn’t bother with staying hidden any more, bolting across the rooftops as fast as he can. He’s still quieter than they are at an all-out sprint and they’re too focused on the child to notice him coming up behind them. If the kid can keep out of their reach for a little longer, then he’ll be able to catch up.

Of course, that’s the moment he slows down, head swivelling as he looked for somewhere to go. Aizawa felt his stomach drop as the thugs started laughing, sauntering forward confidently now that they knew he was trapped.

He was nearly there. Just a little bit further and he’d be able to reach them with his capture weapon. Chances were, he’d be able to get them before they grabbed the boy, but if they did then they’d have something to shield them from him. Hostage situations were usually far too messy for his liking.

Aizawa failed to anticipate what the boy would do.

“Hey, little boy, are you gonna jump?” One of the criminals jeered, and the others laughed.

“Yeah, might save us the trouble of killing you ourselves!” Another says loudly, voice echoing across the streets.

“No need to get our hands dirty.” The last chuckled, the three of them stalking closer to the motionless boy.

He was dressed in black so it was hard to tell, but it looked like the line of his shoulders stiffened at that. Then he took several steps back away from the edge of the roof and dropped into a crouch.

Shit.

Aizawa was finally close enough to fling his capture weapon out, but the boy was already leaping forward, out of range, and he changed his targets to the thugs instead, sending one of them crashing to the floor even as the boy disappeared over the edge.

There was nothing he could do for the child now – either he made it to the next roof safely or the fall would have killed him – so Aizawa took out his frustrations on the men in front of him instead. They had brute force, but no finesse and none of them were mutant types, so Aizawa could erase their quirks without any problems. It didn’t take long to leave them wrapped in folds of his capture weapon, and when he turned to look at the next roof over, he saw the kid standing upright, staring at him wide-eyed with blood running down his face. Hurt, but alive.

Aizawa sighed, some of the tension draining out of him, and took out his phone to contact his hero agency about the people he’d detained. They’d let the police know and take them in.

Swinging down to the lower roof, a convenience store of some kind, he took a closer look at the boy. He was young, probably younger than the first-year classes at UA, though it was hard to tell in the dark. He had bright green eyes and curly hair of a similar shade, but aside from that he was dressed sombrely in black t-shirt and trousers. There was a thinness to his face that suggested he had been sick recently or wasn’t fed well, and Aizawa made a mental note to check on his home life. What parent let their son wander around a bad part of town at night?

“Were those three the only ones chasing you?” Aizawa asked gruffly.

The boy’s mouth snapped shut and he nodded. “Yes.”

“Good.” Aizawa glanced around, looking for a place to get down that the kid would be able to manage. “I’ll take you to the hospital to get checked out.” He didn’t like the way the boy’s chest was still heaving from exertion, or the blood that slicked down his face. It wasn’t unlikely that he had a concussion from that.

The boy made a face but didn’t argue and together they found a way off the roof. It involved jumping onto the bins round the back, sliding off them to plant their feet on the ground. Staggering as he landed, the boy abruptly dropped to his knees, pressing his bloody palms to the tarmac.

Aizawa watched for a moment, evaluating. It didn’t look like the child was panicking, just exhausted and possibly in shock. He crouched beside him.

“What’s your name, kid?” Aizawa asked. He could text it to his hero agency and have them contact his parents or guardians.

“Midoriya Izuku.” Midoriya replied, and Aizawa took it as a good sign that although his voice was weak from the way his chest was still heaving to get more air to his lungs, Midoriya didn’t stutter or sound overly panicked. “I live with my mother. You won’t be able to contact her; she’s at work right now.”

“Your father?” Aizawa asked and received the impression that he’d touched a sore subject when Midoriya’s face went a little cold.

“Overseas somewhere. You won’t be able to reach him either.”

Aizawa hummed noncommittally and sent the text. Midoriya’s reactions weren’t doing anything to lessen his questions about his home life, but it seemed like Midoriya’s father was the most likely suspect for that. He wondered whether Midoriya was telling the truth about his father being out of the country.

They sat in silence as Aizawa waited for Midoriya to catch his breath, only barely bothering to read the text his agency sent him about having notified the police, who had sent some officers with a ladder to collect the downed criminals. He texts back a quick reply, letting them know that he’d take Midoriya to the hospital himself. He didn’t want the kid anywhere near those men, even if they were subdued.

When Midoriya had recovered somewhat, Aizawa helped him up and they made their way to the train station. It was the fastest way to get to the hospital at this time of night, but that didn’t mean Aizawa wanted to use public transport.

After the darkened streets, the brightly-lit station seemed to sear his eyes. Aizawa squinted against the glare, eyes protesting fiercely. The other people around – what few there were, most of them staff – gave the pair of them wide-eyed glances and kept their distance. It wasn’t hard to guess why – an older man dressed in black with a young boy covered in blood was going to raise a few concerns. Still, Aizawa doubted any of them would do anything about the apparently suspicious scene, so he didn’t really care.

A quick glance to the side showed that the boy wasn’t bothered either. He’d noticed, Aizawa had seen him notice, but if the stares bothered him then he was doing a good job of pretending not to care.

They got their tickets and took their seats, Midoriya doing his best to avoid staining the seats with blood. Aizawa could have told him that was a lost cause.

Swaying slightly with the movement of the train as they left the station, Midoriya lifted a hand to cradle his head, which was no doubt aching by now, and Aizawa felt his attention arrested by the thin band wrapped around his wrist.

It was a medical bracelet, Aizawa had seen enough of them to recognise it, sometimes on his own wrist. What really stopped him in his tracks was that it was a specific variant meant only for SAO survivors.

Well. That probably changed things, didn’t it?


End file.
